on Giving

Sitting, somehow ruminating,
looks and thoughts
flow as the river
turgid somnolent
when did He lose
the Way
she knows where to
take him

But that forlorn cry
of the loon in the distance,
the song of the
orcas and that of the seadragons.
a scorpion fish am I
to gobble all.

Those unaware
and those knowingly
come to Me;
fodder for My hunger,
feed off My entrails

supping and gluttoning voraciously
Take Me in parts
I am there to feed
Those psyches ,
selfsame ruins and
dizzy whorls
Yet again ;
now Mine eternally.